


Days Unlike Any Other

by Scrawlers



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Keith-Centric, starts pre-canon and goes up through S4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 05:45:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12474784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrawlers/pseuds/Scrawlers
Summary: From the beginning, Keith's birthday was a little nebulous. But that didn't stop him (or others) from recognizing it over the years all the same.





	Days Unlike Any Other

**Author's Note:**

> Ryuuga is what I named Keith’s father. That will probably be obvious, but I figure it’d help to get it out of the way upfront. Additionally, I do headcanon Keith and Shiro as seven years apart (as per the guidebook), so Shiro is about 20/21 in the little friendsheith section.
> 
> Edit 3/7/2018: Originally I had named Keith's mother Mezri, but with the release of season five, we now know what her actual name is. I've updated this fic to reflect that. Unfortunately, that's as much of an update as I can do without tossing out the last section of the fic entirely, and I like that part of it too much to throw it out. So I apologize that the last section of this fic is no longer as canon compliant as it once was, but I hope it can still be enjoyable to those who choose to read anyway.

The problem with forging a birth certificate was you had to know what date to write down for the birthday.

Well, Ryuuga thought wearily, that probably wasn’t the  _only_ problem with forging a birth certificate. He pressed his palms into his eyes and tried to rub the sleep out of them so that the text on the (stolen) laptop screen on the motel table in front of him would look less blurry. When he blinked at it again and found that the light emanating from it was as harsh as it was before, he yanked the AC adaptor free from the port, and let the cord fall on the floor.

Keith’s bassinet was on the other side of the room, but his head turned at the sound. God, his hearing was sharp.

The problem, Ryuuga thought, was that he didn’t know exactly how old Keith was. He knew Keith was a baby. That was obvious enough—anyone could tell he was an infant. But how long had they spent in space after Keith was born? He remembered all the units for time he’d heard while they were up there—vargas this, and quintants that—but he didn’t know what they meant. He hadn’t ever figured out the conversion. Even when he and Krolia had tried to puzzle it out—

God.  _Krolia._

Ryuuga put his face in his hands again. He was so tired. It was only 9:30 at night, and he was  _so tired._ He guessed there was a reason why there was a stereotype that new parents were always exhausted, but the truth was Keith didn’t cry that much. He cried  _sometimes_ —all babies did—but Keith was pretty quiet, at least as far as babies went. At least, Ryuuga thought he was. He’d never spent that much time around babies before, so he couldn’t tell for sure, but he thought that as easy as it was to look after Keith in some ways, it would’ve been easier if Krolia was around to help.

Ryuuga scrubbed his hands down his face, and turned his eyes to the ceiling. The stucco on the motel’s ceiling was patchy, and the paint was yellowed. He couldn’t see the stars, but Krolia probably could, wherever she was, provided she hadn’t gotten herself killed yet.

He heaved a sigh. After a moment, he pushed himself up from his chair to go to Keith’s bassinet, and with ease that came only from however-long of practice, he gently lifted his son into his arms, and took him back over to the little table with the laptop and chair.

“How old are you, boy?” Ryuuga asked. Keith, naturally, didn’t answer. Instead, his head supported by the crook of Ryuuga’s arm, Keith stared at Ryuuga with grey-purple eyes that looked far more piercing than any infant’s had a right to. Keith had inherited those eyes from Krolia, and Ryuuga held him a little bit closer.

No matter how close or how long Ryuuga held Keith, though, that wouldn’t solve the birth certificate problem. There was no telling exactly how old Keith was just by looking at him, much less how the day he was born in space translated to the Earth calendar. Ryuuga sighed again, and lightly touched Keith’s nose with one finger. Keith blinked the moment Ryuuga’s fingertip connected, yet just as swiftly swung one tiny hand up to grasp Ryuuga’s finger in a little fist. Ryuuga smiled.

“Can’t get one by you, can I?” he asked. “You’re a quick little guy. Gonna be sharp as a whip as you get older. God save me when you start walkin’.” Although, depending on when Keith reached his toddler years, maybe that would help Ryuuga figure out a more exact age for him.

Keith considered Ryuuga for a moment, and then he smiled back.

Ryuuga looked at the date displayed at the bottom right corner of the laptop screen. It was November 27th—few days past Thanksgiving. Ryuuga wasn’t sorry about missing Thanksgiving—it wasn’t like he had any relatives anymore to spend it with (besides Keith, anyhow, and Keith was too young to care)—but . . .

He glanced back down at his son, and then looked back at the birth certificate he was forging.

Keith was a few weeks old, at least. Maybe a month. He could pass as a month old, couldn’t he? It wasn’t that big of a difference. Didn’t need to be  _that_ exact. Aside from his and Ryuuga’s names, practically everything else on the birth certificate was a lie, anyway. Even if his birthday was just an educated guess, well . . . at least it was educated. It was better than what the government or any foster agency would give him, if they ever got a hold of him. (Which they wouldn’t. Over Ryuuga’s dead body, maybe, and if he had his way, not even then.)

Ryuuga shifted Keith in his arms to make it a little easier to use the laptop with his free hand. And then, after consulting the calendar built into the laptop’s time and date system, he typed  _October 23_ on the birth certificate.

It was as good a date as any.

**\- - -**

It didn’t rain on Keith’s tenth birthday.

It should have, he thought. It would have been more fitting. It would have been more fitting had it rained, had it stormed—if a hurricane somehow reached the Midwest and devastated the entire city, so he could make his escape while everyone was distracted with the relief efforts. But it didn’t rain; instead, it was unseasonably warm and sunny. Despite being so late in October, the only clouds in the sky were cirrus, and all Keith needed was a light jacket over his t-shirt to keep warm.

He hated it.

He shouldn’t have hated it. If anything, he hated that he hated it. His birthday had always been one of the best days of the year. There hadn’t been many bad days in the past nine years—weird days, sure, like the time he woke up to find an opossum sitting at the foot of his bed, staring at him, or the day when he and his dad’s truck broke down, and the only guy they could find to help them was an old man who was convinced they were his son and grandson and had returned home to help run the family’s pie business—but even so, his birthday had always stood out as one of the best.

When he had been really small, like around five or six or so, his dad used to start off every day by scooping Keith up onto his shoulders and spinning him around in a birthday helicopter ride. Once that was over (and even in years where that didn’t take place), Keith’s birthday breakfast was always a stack of chocolate chip pancakes nearly as big as him. After that, they would do whatever. His dad never made him go to school on his birthday. Instead, they’d usually go somewhere cool. Some years his dad took him to whatever local attraction happened to be in the area. Weird museums dedicated to the paranormal (but that were really filled with hoax things like “authentic photographs” of Bigfoot and Mothman), or supposedly haunted mansions. Other years they went to the movies, or to a dirt bike racing park, and it wasn’t like they never did these things on normal days—they did—but there was always something  _special_ about doing it on his birthday. On his birthday, they could do whatever Keith wanted, and his dad never said no. Keith’s birthday was  _his_ day, his dad always said. It was a day to celebrate the fact that Keith was there, alive on Earth. So whatever Keith wanted, he got, just on that day. If he wanted the world’s biggest sundae for dinner that night, he got it (and trust in the fact that Keith had cake and ice cream for dinner on his birthday every single year).

Keith topped off the candles of the tiny birthday cake he was doodling in the upper corner of his math notebook with little flames, and then scowled as he harshly scribbled over it.

This year was different.

It had been three months since his dad disappeared—three months since Keith waited, and  _waited_ , only for his dad to never come back to the motel room. And he was going to come back—Keith knew he was. He said he would be back, and Keith believed him. His dad had never let him down before. But no one had listened. The motel manager hadn’t listened when Keith told her that his dad would be back soon. The police hadn’t listened when they had dragged Keith out of there. They hadn’t listened when working with child protective services to set him up with a stupid foster family, and the foster adults (Keith refused to call them his parents) hadn’t listened when he told them he already had a dad, and they needed to send him back, or at least help him find out where his dad was. It was worse than just not listening; the foster woman had actually gotten angry with him for saying they weren’t his parents, and had said that they were his parents for as long as he lived in their house, so he needed to respect them.

Keith glared at his notebook, and dug his pencil deeper into the paper.

He’d respect them when they earned it.

That morning, he woke up to nothing aside from the sound of one of the other foster boys whining about having a stomachache so they wouldn’t send him to school. There wasn’t anything for breakfast aside from toast, but Keith didn’t want it anyway. He never ate breakfast anymore. No one said anything to him aside from the foster woman snapping at him that he needed to get in the car to go to school, like he didn’t already know that. He went to school every damn day, it wasn’t like he skipped. Not that he’d be missing much even if he did—not that missing  _one day_ of school was bad—but—

He pressed his pencil so hard into his notebook that the tip snapped, the lead skittering off the page and over the edge of his desk. He looked up, but his teacher was still droning on with her lesson, explaining how fractions worked with long division. No one else noticed, either. Keith stuffed his broken pencil into his desk (it wasn’t mechanical and he didn’t have a personal sharpener) and grabbed another from his backpack.

No one knew it was his birthday. Maybe the foster adults knew, he didn’t know, but it had been three months and they weren’t any fonder of him than he was of them. Even if they did know, probably they weren’t going to say anything. And that was fine. He’d rather they didn’t. He didn’t want to celebrate his birthday with them. He didn’t want to celebrate his birthday with anyone but his dad, and his dad wasn’t there, and probably he wouldn’t be there even when Keith got out of school. There would be no one waiting for Keith after school but the jerks from Ms. Patterson’s class (egged on by the same foster boy from Keith’s home who had broken Keith’s toy lightsaber) and the foster woman.

Keith rubbed the palm of his hand into his eye, swallowed hard, and drew the head of a T-rex before he scribbled that out, too.

It didn’t matter. It was stupid. It was just a stupid, normal day, like any other. It wasn’t anything special.

**\- - -**

One of the foremost lessons at the Galaxy Garrison was emergency preparedness. Space explorers—and commanding officers in particular—needed to be able to think swiftly and accurately on their feet. Panic would help no one in the case of an oncoming comet, or an alien abduction. Keeping a level head and laser sharp focus was paramount. As the youngest captain the Garrison had ever produced (promoted straight out of graduation, previously unheard of), Shiro prided himself on his reflexes. He knew his focus was his gift. He was always 100% prepared for any situation life could possibly throw at him. He absolutely knew what he was doing, 100% of the time.

This was why, when Keith opened Shiro’s front door five minutes before he was scheduled to arrive, Shiro whipped toward the front door (and away from the banner he had just finished pinning to the wall) and yelled, “BIRTH!”

Most people would freeze upon having someone shout at them the second they walked in the door, but in the seven or so months Shiro had gotten to know Keith through the Garrison’s prospective cadets program, he had learned that Keith was not “most people.” Case in point, Shiro hadn’t even finished speaking before Keith took a step back, his weight on the ball of his right foot, both of his hands raised in a self-defense gesture. How a thirteen— _fourteen_ , Shiro corrected himself—year-old had gotten so vigilant Shiro wasn’t sure, but it was one of the things that made the other officers at the Garrison so excited and especially determined to recruit Keith into preliminary training as quickly as they had.

As vigilant as Keith was, it also made him sharp. It took him only a second to realize that there was no threat, and as he lowered his hands and stood up straight again, he said, “What?”

“Happy birthday,” Shiro said, and he smiled as Keith’s eyes swept over the decorations in the living room (not that there were much, given that Shiro hadn’t had that much time to prepare, but there was at least a banner over the entryway leading into the dining area). “I know it’s a few days late, but I wanted to throw a little something together for you anyway.”

“It’s okay. You didn’t know,” Keith said. He finally stepped over the threshold and into the house, and without turning back he knocked the door shut behind him. That was a first, Shiro noted with a little smile; usually Keith always checked over his shoulder, as if cautious about being followed, before he shut and locked the door. “And you didn’t have to do anything at all.”

“I know,” Shiro said, “but I wanted to. Now come over here; I got you something.”

“What?” Keith said. The initial shock that had struck him when he had first encountered Shiro’s sudden greeting and had caught sight of the decorations had faded, but instead of following Shiro’s instruction to walk to the kitchen to get his birthday gift, he remained rooted to the spot, his eyes wide.

Shiro couldn’t help but smile; in honesty, it was almost hard not to laugh. “Come on,” he said, and he gestured for Keith to walk over to him. “I have something for you in the kitchen. You can leave your backpack by the couch.”

That seemed to enough to kick Keith’s head into gear. As instructed (and as always) he dropped his backpack on the floor by the couch on his way to the kitchen. The moment Shiro saw Keith was going to listen, he turned to cross the threshold into the kitchen himself, and picked up the neatly wrapped gift (courtesy of the woman at the bookstore—Shiro was no good when it came to wrapping presents himself, and never had been) he had waiting on the table. He turned back to see that Keith had already walked up to him, and with another smile, he held the box out for Keith to take.

“Here you go,” Shiro said. “Happy birthday.”

Keith’s brow knitted together over his eyes, a little frown tugging at his lips. By now, Shiro was pretty sure that expression on Keith’s face was one of confusion rather than displeasure. True to form, Keith gently took the present from Shiro’s hands, but he stared at it for a long moment instead of unwrapping it. Finally, he mumbled, “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“I know,” Shiro repeated, “but I wanted to. Everyone deserves to get something for their birthday.”

Keith looked up at him, still frowning, and then asked, “When’s your birthday?”

“February. 29th. Leap Year, technically, but I celebrate on the 28th on off-years.” Shiro grinned. “Of course, if that doesn’t count, I guess it gives a whole new meaning to calling me the youngest captain the Garrison has ever seen, huh?”

Keith rolled his eyes, but the corner of his lips twitched. “Yeah. I’m sure you’re the first toddler they’ve ever had pass their flight simulator.”

“And proud of it,” Shiro said. Keith huffed a little laugh, definitely smiling now, and Shiro nodded toward him. “But go on, open it.”

Keith’s smile faded, but he nonetheless slipped his finger under one of the flaps on the wrapping paper. Any illusion that he was going to tear it neatly was gone in the next second as he used the opening he created to rip the paper off, and as it fell to the floor and he revealed the DVD box set collection within, his eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open.

“You like  _Star Wars,_ don’t you?” Shiro asked, and Keith tore his eyes away from the front of the box set to stare up at Shiro instead. “You made a reference during training a few weeks ago, when Iverson  _had the high ground_ over that cadet.”

“I . . . yeah,” Keith said, and he looked back down at the box set, turning it over in his hands so he could see all six DVD cases lined up neatly inside, before he looked back up at Shiro. “I do, but—Shiro, how much did this cost? It had to be expensive—”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s a birthday present,” Shiro said, thankful now that he had the foresight to remove the price tag before he had the saleswoman wrap it. The last thing he wanted Keith to worry about on his birthday was money. “I know that the prospective cadet dorms don’t have TVs or DVD players, so you can keep it here to watch whenever you want. Actually, I figured we could have a marathon this weekend, starting now, if you wanted.”

The look on Keith’s face suggested that was exactly what he wanted to do, but also that he felt he shouldn’t. The conflict in him seemed to win out as he said, “I’m supposed to be studying—”

“We can study later. Your homework and training materials will still be there when we’re done,” Shiro said. “It’s your birthday—or at least, it was. You deserve to have a little break. As your mentor, I’ve decided and am saying that you’ve earned it.”

It took a second, but finally, Keith smiled again. “Thanks, Shiro.”

Shiro smiled back, and clapped Keith on the shoulder. “Don’t mention it. Go put Episode I in the DVD player, and I’ll grab us some snacks.” For it was still too early for dinner, and the birthday cake, Shiro felt, was another surprise best saved for later.

Keith nodded, and turned to head back into the living room, but he took no more than two steps before he paused and said, “Hey—”

“What is it?”

Keith turned back, frowning once again as he asked, “Did you shout ‘birth’ at me when I first walked in the house?”

A hot flush spread across the back of Shiro’s neck, and he rubbed at it in an effort to make it go away. “Ah, uh—yeah. That was supposed to be ‘surprise’. You caught me off-guard.”

Keith stared at him for a second, as if unable to make sense of what Shiro had just said, before he asked, “How do you get ‘birth’ out of ‘surprise’?”

“I was thinking about your birthday and it just came out,” Shiro said. There was something about Keith’s expression, which looked somehow both deadpan and baffled, that made Shiro feel more than a little judged, as if Keith was suddenly second-guessing whether Shiro was a qualified mentor or not. Shiro huffed, and said, “Just go get the movie started, okay? Do you want a soda or Capri Sun?”

Keith shook his head, and started in toward the living room again, but as he did he called over his shoulder, “What flavors have you got?”

“Dr. Pepper and root beer for soda, and strawberry-kiwi for Capri Sun.”

“I’ll take a Dr. Pepper.”

As Keith prepared their movie in the living room, Shiro grabbed a can of Dr. Pepper from the fridge for Keith, and a strawberry-kiwi Capri Sun pouch for himself. He still didn’t know what they were going to do for dinner—pizza, maybe, because pizza was always a safe bet—but as he gathered a selection of snacks from his kitchen cabinets, he figured that was all right. He had the cake, and Keith liked bingeing on snacks as much as Shiro himself did. Belated or not, as far as celebrating Keith’s birthday went, Shiro thought they were doing all right.

**\- - -**

“. . . aaaand done!”

Pidge punctuated her words by punching one of the keys on her workstation. The moment she did, her screen was filled with raining numbers and words that scrolled too quickly for Allura to easily catch. It was an impressive enough sight, but even as Allura gathered around Pidge’s workstation with the others, she wasn’t entirely sure why they (or at the very least, Lance, Hunk, and Matt) all seemed so excited.

“In just a few seconds, the conversion process will be complete,” Pidge said. She sat back in her seat, her arms folded, a proud smile on her face. “Of course, I would have never been able to figure it out if it wasn’t for Matt supplying the algorithm—”

“Are you kidding? You’re the one who designed the code that allows the program to run in the first place,” Matt said. He leaned against the back of Pidge’s chair, but as he spoke, he reached over it to ruffle her hair. “My little sister, the genius.”

“Yeah, yeah, we all know Pidge is the smartest girl in the known universe,” Lance said, and he waved one hand in the air. “But can we just—”

“Wow, thanks, Lance,” Pidge said, and it might have been Allura’s imagination, but she thought Pidge’s cheeks looked a little pink. Her nose crinkled when she smiled. “You really think that?”

“Think it? Uh, no. I know it. It’s pretty obvious by now. Everyone would agree with me,” Lance said. If anything, that only caused Pidge’s cheeks to darken, and Allura didn’t miss the way Matt’s eyes narrowed at Lance. “But that’s not the point right now. The point is I want to know what the date is.” Lance thumped his fists against the back of Pidge’s chair. “Tell us the date!”

“If it’s the date you want to know, why didn’t you just ask?” Coran said, and as all eyes turned to him, he threw his shoulders back and stroked his mustache. “Today’s date in this quadrant of our present galaxy is—”

“No, no, no! That’s  _not_ what we’re after,” Lance said, and he held up his hands in a clear ‘stop’ gesture.

“Yeah, uh, sorry, Coran, but the date in  _this_ part of the universe is not what we’re curious about,” Hunk said, smiling sheepishly.

“It isn’t?” Allura asked, and when Lance, Hunk, and Pidge all shook their heads, she asked, “Then what is?”

“Earth,” Pidge said simply. Her program gave a soft  _ding_ , and as one every person gathered around her workstation turned to look at the holographic screen. Pidge continued speaking, even as her eyes scanned the data. “We know how long we’ve been gone by Altean time, but that doesn’t give us a frame of reference for how much time has passed on Earth since we’ve been gone. So with Matt’s help, I created a conversion program that allows us to input the current date in  _this_ quadrant of the galaxy, and convert it to whatever date it is on Earth right now. It might not be exact, but it’ll be close enough.”

“I see,” Allura said slowly. “But I’m afraid I don’t . . .”

“What?” Matt asked.

“I’m unsure of how useful this information will be,” Allura said, and as Matt, Lance, Hunk, Shiro, Coran, and Pidge all turned to look at her, she smiled apologetically. “I’m sure it is very interesting, and you’ve certainly done a marvelous job creating this program. But our current battles are very far away from Earth. Even if we know what day it is there, I’m unsure how that will help us combat Zarkon’s forces.”

“This isn’t about Zarkon,” Pidge said. There was a tone in her voice Allura couldn’t easily identify; her expression was caught somewhere between a smile and a frown, so faint it was hard to tell which one it was. “It’s about our families.”

“Your families?”

“We’ve been gone a long time . . . we think,” Hunk said, and he cast his eyes to the floor. “And we left kinda suddenly, you know? We didn’t even get a chance to tell anyone goodbye.”

“Didn’t so much as give the Garrison a leave of absence demand, much less request,” Lance said. “And if we didn’t tell  _them_ that we were flying off into space in a giant, beautiful, amazing Blue Lion to fight in an intergalactic space war against the Galra Empire, there’s no way they could tell our families that’s what we did.”

“So we’re just kind of wondering how much time we’re going to have to apologize for,” Hunk said. “Because my mom? Is not going to be cool about this. Not even a little.”

“And my mom already thought Matt and my dad were dead,” Pidge said. “All this will have done is make her think she lost her daughter, too.”

“Mom’s tough, Pidge,” Matt said gently, and he placed his hand on Pidge’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “She’ll understand—”

“When we come home, she will,” Pidge said, and she looked back at the data on her screen. Allura wasn’t sure if she truly saw it or not. “But until then, she doesn’t have any idea of what happened.”

“I see,” Allura said. She swallowed, then cleared her throat to try and get past the obstruction suddenly lodged in it. She had known that her—that her  _fellow_ Paladins had left lives on their own planet behind in order to defend the universe. She had known that, but somehow it hadn’t truly hit her before that moment just how much they must have left behind to help fight this war. She had always been grateful for their presences in her Castle and life, but in that moment she was suddenly struck by just how fortunate she was that they were the ones there when she woke from cryo-sleep. “Well then, by all means, please continue. What day is it on Earth?”

“Let’s see . . .” Pidge scrolled through the data, scrolling too quickly for anyone save her to keep up with, and finally settled on one piece, glowing green. “Looks like it’s October 23rd.”

“Is there a year?” Hunk asked, trepidation in his voice.

“And what month did we leave again? Was it May?” Lance asked, and then his eyes widened. “Wait, have I had a birthday?!”

“It’s Keith’s now,” Shiro said.

Just as they had before when Pidge’s program announced that it had finished its conversions, everyone present turned to look at Shiro, Pidge twisting around in her seat so she could look up at him properly. Shiro blinked, as if just now realizing that everyone had turned to him, but when he offered no further explanation, Coran said, “Sorry, Shiro, but could you repeat that, please?”

“It’s Keith’s birthday.” Shiro nodded back toward Pidge’s workstation, where the words  _October 23 rd_were still present on the screen. “October 23rd. It’s his birthday.”

“Well, that’s . . . that’s wonderful!” Allura said, and she clapped her hands together. “We’ll have to do something to celebrate! We could have a party—something small, at least—”

“I could bake a cake,” Hunk said. “Hey, Shiro, do you know what kind of cake Keith likes? Does he like chocolate? Wait, does he even like cake?”

“Who doesn’t like cake?” Lance said, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Everyone likes cake. Even that mullethead has to like cake.”

“Some people don’t,” Hunk said. “My grandma refused to touch it.”

“Get out of here!”

“It’s true! She wouldn’t eat any dessert but cobbler. Said everything else tasted like soggy shoes. I tried to reason with her, but she wouldn’t have it.”

“What the heck, who compares cake to soggy shoes?!”

“My grandma!”

“I think Keith liked chocolate cake,” Shiro said, and he raised his voice a little to be heard as Lance opened his mouth to offer a rebuttal.

“Okay, good,” Hunk said. “Now, if I can just figure out where to get some chocolate . . .”

“Uh, guys?” Pidge said, and when she saw she had everyone’s attention, continued, “Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourselves? Keith’s not here right now. He moved out. He’s with the Blade of Marmora now, remember?”

“Oh . . .” Allura’s shoulders slumped, and took her heart right along with them. “That’s right, he did. I . . . I got a little carried away. I apologize.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Shiro said. “It can be easy to forget, especially when things crop up like this. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

Allura tried to smile, but she didn’t have to see herself to know how weak it felt. No one was looking at each other now; Pidge had gone back to looking at her workstation, though she wasn’t scrolling through the data, and Matt was similarly pretending to examine the information on the screen. Hunk was awkwardly staring at his feet, and Lance was casting his eyes around the main room, as if trying to find something else to catch his attention. Shiro was looking across the room, out through the main observation window, and Coran was watching her.

And Keith . . .

Well, it was as Pidge had said. Keith wasn’t there.

But nothing would be accomplished by standing around, feeling despondent and awkward. Allura had always been averse to inaction; wallowing in her feelings had never changed anything, nor had it allowed them to lessen. She took a deep breath, forced her brightest smile, and said, “Well, even if he can’t attend a party, that doesn’t stop us from giving him birthday wishes, does it? Coran, could you please establish contact with the Blade of Marmora? If nothing else, I’m sure Keith would like to know he’s another decaphoeb older.”

“Certainly, Princess! Just a tick,” Coran said, and he spun on the ball of his foot before he darted over to the communications control panel.

As Coran set about getting in contact with the Blade of Marmora (and as Hunk, Matt, Pidge, and Lance all relocated to standing in front of the primary communications screen), Shiro turned to Allura with a frown. “I’m not sure we should be contacting the Blades for something like this.”

“I agree that social calls aren’t generally what we want to use these communication lines for, but this is a special occasion,” Allura said. “I’m sure they’ll understand, particularly if we keep it brief. Besides, I . . .”

“What is it?”

Allura smiled, and shook her head. “Never mind. Let’s go join the others. Coran will make contact with the Blade of Marmora any tick now.”

The look Shiro gave her suggested that he wanted to press the issue. Ever since his return, he had seemed more reluctant to let things go. But Allura turned away before he had the chance, and strode over to join the others in front of the primary communications screen.

It wasn’t a big deal, really. If Shiro or anyone else  _really_ wanted to know, Allura would tell them. But it felt a little awkward to do so, as if she was sharing information that wasn’t hers to share. And she wasn’t—that wasn’t the case at all—but . . .

She laced her fingers together over her stomach as it gave an anxious little tumble.

If she closed her eyes now, she could remember clearly how taken aback Keith had looked in their travel pod when Allura told him that without him, they couldn’t form Voltron. If she closed her eyes now, she could remember clearly the downcast, dubious expression on Keith’s face when she told him that they could not go on without him, even though the Blade of Marmora could. If she closed her eyes now, she could remember clearly how Keith wouldn’t meet her eyes if she asked him if he was pulling away from them because he felt Shiro could take his place—could remember how his voice had cracked as he told them about the mission he had to leave on.

All things considered, Allura felt that it was . . . important that they wished Keith a happy birthday, that they told him they were thinking of him. It was the least they could do for now.

The communications screen flared to life, and while they were greeted by a dark hood and glowing mask at first, the hood was lowered and the mask fizzled out to reveal a dark purple face and glowing golden eyes. Allura’s heart, as it always did when she found herself staring into eyes like those, picked up its pace. She twisted her fingers more tightly together and did her best to ignore it.

“Paladins of Voltron,” the Marmorite on-screen said. His voice was neutral, as the Marmorites’ voices usually were. By now Allura could at least pick up distinctions in Kolivan’s tone, but the rest . . . she wished Kolivan had answered the call instead. “We weren’t expecting a communication today. Is something amiss?”

“No,” Allura said, and she took a step forward, forcing a little smile as she addressed him, “and we apologize for anything we may have interrupted. We were wondering—is Keith available?”

“I’m afraid not,” the Marmorite answered, and for the second time in less than half a varga, Allura’s heart sank. “He’s on a mission with Kolivan and a few others. We have no way of reaching him.”

“I see,” Allura said. She did her best to keep her voice as level as the Marmorite’s. “Do you know when he will be back?”

“Unfortunately, we have no way of knowing that now,” the Marmorite said.

Allura blinked. There was something about the way he said that—

“What do you mean, you have no way of knowing that  _now_?” Shiro asked.

The Marmorite hesitated, but only for a tick. Then he said, “They were supposed to return two quintants ago. They haven’t, and signal interference around the mission site has blocked all forms of communication and contact. We have no way of knowing when—or if—they will return.”

Something akin to a flood of icy water rushed through Allura, and froze her to the spot.

“Wait—wait, wait, wait, hold on,” Hunk said, and he raised both hands in a gesture that would have looked placating were it not for the worried knit of his brow. “You’re not saying that—are you saying that—that they’re . . . that Keith is—that he could be—”

“Captured?” Pidge asked. Her tone suggested it wasn’t the first word that had come to mind.

The Marmorite’s expression did not change. His tone was perfectly even as he answered, “We have already begun preparations for the worst-case scenario. Rest assured that our contribution to the war will not be—”

“Where was the mission?” Allura demanded. Only now did the Marmorite blink, as if truly taken aback by her sudden interruption. “Send us their coordinates. We will take our Lions and assist them with Voltron—”

“No,” the Marmorite said.

Allura curled her fingers into fists by her sides. “Excuse me?”

“As secure as our communication channels may be, they are not foolproof,” the Marmorite said. “We have reason to believe that certain communication channels we use throughout the coalition may be compromised. We cannot risk relaying information that sensitive over these communication channels.”

“This is the first we’ve heard about potentially compromised communication channels,” Shiro said, his voice hard. “When were you going to share this information with us?”

“When it came up, as it has now,” the Marmorite said, his voice equally as hard.

“More importantly, what are you doing to ensure the safety of Keith, Kolivan, and the others?” Allura said. “You claim that you are unable to trust us with their coordinates—”

“That is not what I—”

“—yet you don’t seem to be doing anything to assist them with their mission. If something has gone wrong, then they need help. We will gladly provide that assistance if you will not.”

“It is not a matter of will, but a matter of practicality,” the Marmorite said. He was glaring at her now, and Allura returned his glare in kind. “The mission comes before the individual. Right now, the most important task we have is to carry on with the mission, and take the necessary measures to ensure the mission’s continued success even in the event Kolivan does not return.”

“And Keith?” Hunk asked. “What about him?”

The Marmorite turned his eyes to Hunk. “Keith was one of our youngest, rather than our leader, but the same holds true for him.”

“No,” Allura said. “Keith may have temporarily joined the Blade of Marmora, but he is still a Paladin of Voltron. He will  _always_ be one of us.”

“Yeah!” Lance said. “You can’t just stand there and expect us to accept that one of our guys is stranded off on some mission somewhere, captured or maybe even . . . even . . .” He swallowed and flailed a hand, delivering his point without saying a word.

But whether the Marmorite they were speaking with understood Lance’s point or not, he didn’t seem impressed. “Keith is one of ours. As a member of the Blade of Marmora, he understood the risks he was taking when he agreed to this mission. He understood that the mission comes before the individual. He understood that there are things worth dying for. He would not want us— _any_ of us—to jeopardize the universe’s freedom on a rescue mission for him which may be in vain from the start.”

“. . . That’s true,” Allura bit out, and she turned her glare to the floor. She couldn’t stand to look at the Marmorite any longer. “But—!”

“I apologize,” the Marmorite said suddenly, “but I am afraid I have other duties to return to. If Kolivan or Keith return, I will be sure to have them contact you.”

“We understand,” Shiro said, before Allura had a chance to reply. “Thank you.”

The Marmorite nodded, and then the communication screen went blank.

Silence reigned in the main room. Allura’s voice felt stuck in her throat. She thought that she should have been the one to say something—that, as before, she should have been the one to nudge the others into action. But all she could hear in her own head was the Marmorites’ voice, saying that Keith was due back to quintants ago . . . that there was no way to contact him . . . that they were already making preparations in case Kolivan didn’t return, and that if Kolivan had perished, then it was likely that Keith . . .

“We should prepare for our next patrols,” Shiro said, and Allura looked up as his voice broke through the static in her head. “Coran, can you plot a course through the east quadrant? I want to make sure the medical supply ships in that area make it to the next base.”

“I—yes, of course,” Coran said. He gave his head a little shake and looked back at the keyboard, as Matt frowned at Shiro.

“Is this really okay?” Matt asked. “Are you really okay with this?”

“Okay with what?” Shiro asked.

“With just . . . leaving things like this.” Matt gestured back up at the dark communication screen. “Keith’s . . . gone somewhere. He could be captured, or worse. Are you really okay with just . . . leaving him?”

Shiro stared at Matt for a long tick, and then he said, “I would like to go after him as much as anyone else here, but we have no coordinates and no leads. Instead of spinning our wheels searching the galaxy with nothing to go on, our time would be better spent doing what needs to be done to free the universe from Galra control. Keith would feel the same way.”

Matt pressed his lips together, yet turned away without further argument. Pidge exchanged a look with Lance that Allura couldn’t read; her eyes were narrowed, even as Lance shook his head and shrugged. Hunk walked over to Coran, and asked him in a quiet voice if he needed help.

Part of Allura wanted to agree with Shiro. As uncomfortable as the idea was, the mission did come first. In her own words, the mission was greater than any one individual, no matter how irreplaceable. They all knew that. Keith in particular had always been on the same page as Allura herself when it came to this.

But she remembered all the days and nights that Keith had spent searching for Shiro after his disappearance. She remembered how Keith ran himself ragged between searching for Shiro, and still trying to accomplish his duties as a Paladin of Voltron. She remembered how, even after he accepted that he would need to pilot the Black Lion, that he kept a radar running, searching for even the faintest ping of Shiro’s whereabouts. Even though Keith had accepted that the mission had to continue, he still hadn’t given up. He had refused to, and as said as much, because he knew that Shiro would never give up on him.

Allura watched as Shiro crossed the room to stand by Coran and Hunk, looking over the map that Coran had brought up on the screen.

Shiro’s logic was sound. There was no doubt about that. His logic was perfectly sound. But all the same, something about this . . .

Something about this didn’t feel right.

**\- - -**

 

One and a half vargas after they returned from their mission, Kolivan called for Keith to meet him at the observation deck.

The mission had been a disaster. It was yet another trap—another ambush. If Kolivan had suspected that their communication channels were compromised somehow before, he was certain of it now. Somehow, they were either being fed false info, or their plans were being leaked to the Empire. Where the leak was, Kolivan was not certain; all he knew was that it had to be patched, and quickly. This past mission had cost them three more lives, and Keith’s had nearly been among them. That he had survived at all was nothing short of a miracle; Kolivan could not think of another Marmorite who would be small enough to hide in the engine compartment of an abandoned ship for two quintants, and there were few Kolivan could think of who would have the fortitude to even if they were small enough. Yet Keith had managed—his determination to survive had won out—and for that, he was able to return safely once Kolivan cleared a path to get him out. Not that Kolivan should have, per se—the war was greater than any one individual, and remaining behind for Keith had put Kolivan's own life at risk, meaning that the Blade (and resistance) could have lost them both—but much as Regris had in an earlier mission, Keith had intel on him that would have been foolish to leave behind. Trap or not, the mission hadn’t been a total failure. Kolivan made sure Keith had the intel when he was rescued. No protocol was broken when it came to getting Keith out of that engine room, and Kolivan made sure Keith knew it.

If Kolivan was honest with himself, it was not the  _only_ reason he had waited for Keith. But Keith didn’t need to know that.

When they finally made it back to their base, they did so with the sort of bone-deep exhaustion that rivaled the sheer force of a black hole. Upon arrival, Keith gruffly dismissed himself to his own quarters before Kolivan had a chance to say much of anything to him. Likewise, though Garus called out to him, Keith didn’t so much as twitch to indicate that he heard. In absence of Keith’s attention, Garus had told Kolivan instead that the Paladins of Voltron had called to speak to Keith two quintants ago, and that they wanted to speak to either Keith or Kolivan himself as soon as possible.

“Understood,” Kolivan said. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Of course,” Garus said, inclining his head.

“One more thing,” Kolivan said, and when Garus raised his eyebrows to show Kolivan had his attention, he said, “After Keith showers, make sure he eats and drinks something. He has gone a few days without food and water. Then ask him to meet me on the observation deck.”

Garus smiled. “Understood.”

With Garus tending to Keith (who Kolivan knew was going to protest eating and drinking instead of sleeping, but of all the Marmorites, Kolivan knew Garus to be one of the most insistent when it came to nurturing, and the news that Keith had gone for days without food and water would make him not back down from following through on Kolivan’s request), Kolivan returned to his quarters. He needed to call the Paladins of Voltron, given the message that Garus had relayed to him, and he would. The alliance the Blade had formed with Voltron was an important one, and not one that Kolivan was willing to lose. But calling the Paladins was not mission critical. They could wait, at least for another few vargas. Keith—and the photograph that Kolivan retrieved from his quarters to show Keith—came first.

That was how Kolivan came to be on the observation deck as Keith walked up to join him one and a half vargas later. In the light from the stars outside their one-way window, Keith looked more exhausted than ever. Though he had showered, and thus his hair had regained its usual fluff, there were dark circles beneath his eyes, and his face looked worn. There was a tension in his stride that came only with having gone without sleep for so long that he was putting extra effort into appearing alert. When he spoke, his voice rasped, and though the rasp was a little better now than it had been two vargas ago (no doubt due to the water Garus made Keith drink), it was still rough with exhaustion.

“You wanted to see me, Kolivan?”

“Yes.” Kolivan patted the floor next to him. “Please take a seat.”

Wordlessly, Keith followed Kolivan’s instruction, and while Kolivan thought that Keith was probably attempting to be graceful, he dropped to the deck with more heaviness than grace could sustain. Nonetheless, he crossed his legs sat down, and placed his hands in his lap. Once he was situated, Kolivan held the photograph out to him, and Keith took it from him with a surprisingly gentle grip.

Keith stared at the photograph in silence for a moment before he said, “She’s pretty. Who is she?”

“Her name was Krolia,” Kolivan said. Keith didn’t remove his eyes from the photograph. “She was a friend of mine in childhood. We knew each other for many years, and joined the Blade of Marmora together.” Kolivan let this information sink in for a tick before he said, “She was also your mother.”

Keith looked up so fast Kolivan heard his neck pop. “What?”

“She—Krolia—was your mother,” Kolivan repeated. Keith’s eyes were wide, and the hand that held the photograph was trembling now. When he looked back at the picture in his hands, all traces of fatigue were gone from his expression; his eyes (so much like Krolia’s) raked over every inch of the photograph. “You were born in the infirmary of one of our bases. Not this one; one much farther away from here.”

“I—wait.” Keith looked up again, his brow knitted together. “I wasn’t born on Earth?”

“No,” Kolivan said. “You were sent to Earth with your human father roughly thirty quintants after you were born. Krolia was concerned for your safety. She thought you would not survive the war if you remained here with her.”

Keith looked at Krolia’s photo again, staring with an intensity that suggested he was trying to burn her image into his brain. Finally, he asked, “How long have you known? Why didn’t you ever tell me?” He turned his eyes on Kolivan again; they were burning. “I asked you when we first met. I asked you how and why I had that knife, and you—”

“I wasn’t certain then,” Kolivan said, and Keith closed his mouth. “I suspected. I couldn’t think of another possible answer for why a human would have one of our knives. But suspicion alone does not warrant trust. I could only reveal the truth to you if you revealed yourself to be her son. By the end of the Trial, you did.”

“I almost died.”

“And yet, you didn’t,” Kolivan said. “Despite the impossible odds, you persisted, and you survived. You have Krolia’s tenacity. I had confidence that if you were her son, you would survive the Trials as she had. You answered my confidence proudly.”

Keith looked back at the photograph. “Her tenacity, huh,” he said. “She was tenacious . . .”

A few ticks slipped by, quiet and contemplative, before Keith looked to Kolivan again. “Then why are you telling me now?” he asked. “Even if you didn’t tell me before the Trials, you could have told me any time after. Why not?”

“There wasn’t very much opportunity,” Kolivan said. “Between the battle against Zarkon fought shortly after our alliance, as well as Shiro’s disappearance, and everything that came after while you fought as a Paladin of Voltron, no opportunity presented itself. And after you joined us . . . I felt that it would be better to wait until—until ideally a few quintants ago, but better belated than never.”

“Belated?” Keith furrowed his brow. “Why a few quintants ago?”

Kolivan smiled. “I thought that the answers to your questions about your heritage—and that a photograph of, and information about, your mother—would make for fitting birthday gifts.”

Keith’s eyes widened. “Birthday?”

“Nineteen decaphoebs and about four or five quintants ago, you were born in the infirmary wing of one of our bases,” Kolivan said. Keith was staring at him, his eyes the size of wormholes, and just as bright. “You were small enough so that I could hold you with one hand, and completely pink. Your mother thought you were the most beautiful sight she had ever laid eyes on.”

“What . . . was she like?” Keith asked. His voice still had a rasp, but it was different now. No longer exhausted, but . . . awestruck. “What was my mom like?”

“Tenacious, as I said, though stubborn to a fault may be a better way to put it. Obstinate. Bull-headed. Passionate about her beliefs and willing to argue herself hoarse with anyone who disagreed. Rather,” he said, affecting a stern tone as he inclined his head to look severely at Keith, “like a certain someone else I know.”

Keith’s lips twitched, but he fought a smile Kolivan knew was there as he ducked his head and said, too casually to be believable, “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Kolivan smiled. “She was brave. Valiant. Curious, too, also to a fault. It was a combination of all those things that landed her on Earth in the first place . . .”


End file.
